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It was a grey winter day. The snow outside the Manor was as white and clean as anything ever got in Gotham, but the sky was hazy with clouds and smoke. Inside, Dick lay by the fire in a thick red sweater, feet kicking back and forth as he focused on multiplying decimals.
Ever since he was a little boy on the trapeze, Dick had thrown himself into his work whenever he was upset. So he bit his tongue between his teeth as he tried to remember where the decimal point went, anyway.
He was fine. He was really, honestly fine. He just wasn’t going to let the jerks at school get under his skin. A fist in the face would be sure to shut them up, but last time he’d tried that, Bruce had talked to him for a good hour about how “violence didn’t solve anything,” which honestly was a little hypocritical for a man who dressed up like a bat and punched criminals all night. And he knew he was oversimplifying the issue, but right now Dick would rather be mad than right. Anger kept it from hurting too much.
Wait, was this answer supposed to be 38.2 or 3.82? Why couldn’t they just use fractions forever?
The door creaked open.
“Dick! There you are,” Bruce said. So he was home from work. “How was school today?”
“Fine. We learned lots of stuff.”
“Decimals still giving you problems?”
“They’re fine. I’m working on them now.”
Bruce furrowed his eyebrows just a bit, peering curiously at Dick. Dick could practically hear his dad senses working.
Strike one: instead of being anywhere else in the Manor, Dick had chosen to sequester himself in Bruce’s office. Strike two: his suspiciously laconic responses about his day. Strike three: Dick was actually sitting still, and had barely looked up from his homework when Bruce came in. Conclusion? All is very much unwell with Dick Grayson.
“Is everything okay?” Bruce asked.
Dick nodded a little too fast. “I’m fine,” he said.
He didn’t believe it. Dick knew how to tell when Bruce knew he was lying, but thankfully he dropped the issue.
“I’ve got to look through some papers. Let me know if you need any help with your homework,” Bruce said, stepping over Dick to get to his desk. “Or with anything else.” The offer dangled in the air between them. Dick stared back down at his homework.
Okay. 5.9 times 7.2. He knew how to do this. But his mind kept hashing over the day.
Why did kids have to be so mean? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.
“What kind of name is Dick? That’s not a real name!”
“Dick sounds like a girl!!!”
“You’re such a pussy.”
And it’s not like those weren’t things he’d heard a thousand times by now, but today they just hurt more. He sniffled, and then immediately decided to blame it on the weather or some bug he’d caught at school instead of admitting he was on the verge of tears.
The bullies didn’t know. They couldn’t. Bruce had taken pains to make sure that the school records showed no signs of his birth name or assigned gender, and all Dick’s documentation had been updated to the fullest extent of the law—possibly a bit past that, even. And Bruce had been very clear to the principal that if any students found out that Dick was trans, he’d have his lawyers tie up the school in enough red tape that her grandchildren would still be cleaning it up.
So that only left the second, even more terrifying option: Dick just wasn’t good enough.
And there went the floodgates. He pushed his homework away so he didn’t cry all over it and let his head fall to the floor, hot tears soaking into the carpet.
“Talk to me,” Bruce said. A heavy hand came down to rest on Dick’s shoulder. Swiftly, silently, Bruce had somehow gotten across the room without Dick noticing. He sat next to him now, legs crossed beneath him.
“I’m fine,” Dick said, his words belied by the tears he scrubbed off his face with one sleeve.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “What happened today?”
“It’s the same old same old,” Dick said. He chewed on the inside of his cheek between sentences. “You know I slack a little in gym so nobody asks any questions. Act like I’m not interested. That means I’m a pussy.”
Bruce flinched at the word, realizing how deeply it had to have cut Dick.
“I change in the stalls so no one sees me in my underwear. That means I’m a freak with something to hide. Which, honestly? That one’s true on several levels. I’ve got a weird accent—what’d Clark call it in that article? Lilting? THAT means I sound like a girl. And, as usual, my name. And they’re right. It’s NOT my real name.”
“It is,” Bruce said. “Legally, mentally, and as per common use.”
“And absolutely none of that would matter to them if they knew it wasn’t my birth name.”
“Dick…” Bruce sighed, gathering the boy into his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, and I can’t pretend to know how much their words hurt.”
“’M not a real boy,” Dick mumbled into Bruce’s shoulder.
Bruce put his hands on Dick’s shoulders, giving him a bit of space to pull back. He looked Dick straight in the eyes.
Dick always listened when Bruce made eye contact. It happened rarely, Bruce generally hating to look anyone in the eyes unless he could hide behind the Brucie mask while doing so. He only used it with Dick to hammer home the most important of points.
“Dick Grayson, you are every bit as much of a boy as the best of them. And nothing they say can change that.”
“I’m not good enough. Not masculine enough. They can tell.”
Bruce took a slow, deep breath. Dick’s eyes glistened as they stared into his.
“It doesn’t matter how others perceive you. All that matters is who you know yourself to be. And I know that doesn’t help now. But you’ll grow into yourself. They won’t.” Bruce smiled with half his mouth, small and quiet and comforting, and pulled Dick close. Dick wrapped his arms around Bruce’s neck, face buried in his chest.
Bruce stood, lifting Dick as if he weighed nothing, and carried him over to his big desk chair. “We’re going to get through this. Together. And you are better and brighter than they’ll ever know.”
“It hurts,” Dick said. Bruce helped Dick get comfortable in his lap and pressed a kiss into his hair.
“I know.”
“It shouldn’t.”
“That’s a lie,” Bruce’s hand rubbed up and down Dick’s back as Dick tried to steady his breathing. It was still shuddery, but beginning to slow.
Bruce reached over to the intercom. “Alfred?”
“Yes sir?” Alfred’s voice replied within a few moments.
“We’ll be taking dinner in my office. And could we have cookies and hot chocolate as well?”
“Of course, sir.”
Bruce let go of the button.
“I think we need a movie night. I’ll arrange for you to be absent tomorrow while I have a long, long talk with the school about bullying policies.”
“I’m fine,” Dick protested.
“I know. But you shouldn’t have to deal with this. If things don’t get better, we’ll find a school that is. Okay?”
Dick swallowed hard. “Okay.”
“So. What are we going to watch?” Bruce opened his laptop and waited for Dick’s response. They could always go watch an actual television, but Dick was curled up into him, one fist clenched in his shirt, and Bruce couldn’t be convinced to move by anything but a request from the boy himself.
“Lilo and Stitch?”
Of course. The old standby. They both cried every time, but it was a good kind of cry. Better than the tears Bruce could feel prickling at the back of his eyeballs in response to his son’s pain.
As he booted up the movie, Bruce ran through a game plan in his mind. Tomorrow he’d talk to the school, as well as go through his files on other local schools. He’d also look into helping Dick make friends his own age. The Flash had a new sidekick, only a couple years older than Robin. If he was anything like Barry, he and Dick would probably get along like a house on fire. He’d make that call tomorrow too.
But for now, Dick needed him to stay right where he was.